Hughson A-Z: Oneiric
by deeedeee
Summary: SPOILERLERRRT for s6e3. Oneiric: of, relating to, or suggestive of dreams. A one-shot from that moment when Elsie Hughes puts herself to bed on the eve of... well, you know.


_SPOILERLERRRT for s6e3. Although not much. It's just that little shot of Elsie Hughes putting herself to bed on her last night as an unmarried woman._

* * *

She can't help but chuckle a bit, really.

The light in her bedroom is dim and soft. She glances at the modest nightgown lying there ready on the bed. She'll probably not be wearing it tomorrow night. Yes, she's got something else to wear. But maybe she won't be wearing anything at all…?

 _My, my._

Biting back a smile, she shakes her head and goes through the familiar motions of exhaling and compressing to remove her corset.

 _Wonder if he'll know how to do that?_

She gasps at herself. She can _feel_ her eyes shining with mischief, nerves, joy, anticipation —

 _Heavens, Elsie, that's quite enough of_ _that_ _silliness._

 _...for_ _now_. Her heart jumps at that naughty little thought; she presses her lips together and takes a deep breath through her nose to try to calm herself.

They've kissed. Once. Since then he's hardly dared touch her. But he wants her; she knows this. And she wants him too, though she's not quite certain how it will work. How on earth will they get up the gumption to approach each other in _that way,_ and if they ever do, how on earth will they manage, well... all the rest? Good Lord, she wants to giggle like a silly girl just thinking of the way they stood fluttering at each other this afternoon in her sitting room.

"Couple of old fools," she whispers. But it does nothing to diminish her good spirits… and nerves, yes, that too; she's still not certain how well it's going to go.

She's hung up her corset and shift and reaches for her nightgown. As she pulls it over her head, the fabric feels cool against her. Of course it does; her skin is always hot when she first undresses. Maybe she's particularly warm tonight, but never mind that.

Before doing up the buttons, she presses a hand over her breastbone, breathing deeply. There's no use getting all wound up right now; it's time to go to bed. It's gone eleven o'clock already. And then there's poor Miss Baxter burning the midnight oil to work on that lovely coat.

 _Coat of many colors, hah, with the fights to match. What a day it's been._

Her heart is beating too fast for her to get to sleep. Unpleasant memories of this afternoon rush through her along with a shot of adrenaline; she's never been so humiliated as she was this afternoon with that horrible business in her Ladyship's bedroom. And then to see her below stairs and to be presented with the garment, to _keep_ , no less? It means a great deal. And the whole matter was so distressing. She's exhausted, really. Maybe sleep will come quickly after all.

With quick and practiced motions, she starts removing hairpins. And when she's got a fistful of them with another one held between her thumb and fingertip, she freezes, her hand hovering midair because suddenly it's _maybe he'll take my hair down tomorrow_ — and here's her breath catching in her throat and her heart pounding and she's imagining his hands doing this and how gentle he'll be ( _or how urgent, how will he be what will we do how will it all feel_ ) and now it's _maybe I'll ask him to take it down, maybe I will, maybe_ —

And sleep seems far away again. She tuts at herself, then brushes out her hair and does up the braid as always.

 _What will it feel like will he unzip my dress_ —

She imagines his hands on her shoulders. That little chaste bit of contact alone would make her shiver. It practically did, that night when he kissed her — when _they kissed,_ because she most assuredly kissed him back. But his hands on her _bare_ shoulders, oh my —

She shakes out her hands, buttons up her nightgown, and takes a sip of water. She almost spills it as she sets the glass down.

What will it be like, going to bed with him? Not like _that_ , even, but just — being in the same bed. Sleeping. He probably snores, _hah_. Well, she'll have to get used to it, she supposes.

She gets into bed, pulls the covers up and turns onto her side. She wonders what side of the bed he'll want. Maybe he talks in his sleep — oh my, but that could be endearing. Or annoying. She wonders.

Will he want to hold her? She's not sure if she could sleep like that. Maybe. Maybe he needs space too.

A thousand thoughts, and no answers until tomorrow. She turns out the light and closes her eyes, but it's a long time before she falls asleep.

* * *

 _._

 _...dat cinnamon roll..._

 _._


End file.
